Ian Rankin: Even Dogs in the Wild

‘It’s fine.’ But she had barely touched it, concentrating instead on the carafe of house white. Fox poured himself more water from the jug. Clarke’s water glass, he noted, was still full.

‘What did the note say?’ he asked.

‘Whoever wrote it was promising to kill Lord Minton for something he’d done.’

‘And it wasn’t in Minton’s handwriting?’

‘Letters were all capitalised, but I don’t think so. Cheap black ballpoint rather than a fountain pen.’

‘All very mysterious. Just the one note, do you think?’

‘Search team will be in the house at first light. They’d already be there if Page could have organised it — budget’s in place for seven-day weeks and as much overtime as we need.’

‘Happy days.’ Fox toasted her with his water. Clarke’s phone started vibrating. She had placed it on the table next to her wine glass. She checked the screen and decided to answer.

‘It’s Christine Esson,’ she explained to Fox, lifting the phone to her ear. ‘Shouldn’t you be at home with your feet up, Christine?’ But as she listened, her eyes narrowed a little. Her free hand reached for the wine glass as if on instinct, but the glass was still empty, as was the carafe. ‘Okay,’ she announced eventually. ‘Thanks for letting me know.’ She ended the call and tapped the phone against her lips.

‘Well?’ Fox prompted.

‘Reports of a gunshot in Merchiston. Christine just heard from a pal of hers at the control room. Someone who lives on the street called it in. A patrol car’s on its way to the scene.’

‘Some old banger backfiring?’

‘Caller heard breaking glass — living-room window, apparently.’ She paused. ‘The window of a house belonging to a Mr Cafferty.’

‘Big Ger Cafferty?’

‘The very same.’

‘Well, that’s interesting, isn’t it?’

‘Thank God we’re off duty.’

‘Absolutely. Perish the thought we’d want to take a look.’

‘Quite right.’ Clarke cut off a chunk of hake with the side of her fork. Fox was studying her over the rim of his glass.

‘Whose turn to pay?’ he asked.

‘Mine,’ Clarke replied, dropping the fork on the plate and signalling for a waiter.

The patrol car sat kerbside with its roof lights flashing. It was a wide street of detached late-Victorian houses. The gates to Cafferty’s driveway were open and a white van was parked there. A couple of neighbours had come out to spectate. They looked cold, and would probably head in again soon. The two uniformed officers — one male, one female — were known to Clarke. She introduced Fox, then asked what had happened.

‘Lady across the street heard a bang. There was a flash too, apparently, and the sound of glass shattering. She went to her window but couldn’t see any sign of life. The living room lights went off, but she could see the window was smashed. Curtains were open, she says.’

‘He’s been quick enough getting a glazier.’ Fox nodded towards Cafferty’s house, where a man was busy fitting a plywood covering over the window.

‘What does the occupant say?’ Clarke asked the uniforms.

‘He’s not opening his door. Tells us it was an accident. Denies there was anything like a shot.’

‘And he told you this by…?’

‘Shouting at us through his letter box when we were trying to get him to open up.’

‘You know who he is, right?’

‘He’s Big Ger Cafferty. Gangster sort of character, or at least used to be.’

Clarke nodded slowly and noticed that a dog — some kind of terrier — was standing next to her and giving one of her legs an exploratory sniff. She shooed it, but it sat back on its haunches, staring up at her quizzically.

‘Must belong to a neighbour,’ one of the uniforms surmised. ‘It was padding up and down the pavement when we got here.’ He bent down to scratch the dog behind one ear.

‘Check the rest of the street,’ Clarke said. ‘See if there are any more witnesses.’

She headed up the path towards the front door, taking a detour to where the glazier was nailing the panelling into the window frame.

‘Everything okay here?’ she asked him. As far as she could tell, the living-room curtains were now closed, the room behind them in darkness.

‘Just about finished.’

‘We’re police officers. Can you tell us what happened?’

‘Accidental breakage. I’ve measured up and it’ll be good as new tomorrow.’

‘You know neighbours are saying a bullet did this?’

‘In Edinburgh?’ The man shook his head.

‘You’ll need to give your details to my colleagues before you leave.’

‘Fine by me.’

‘Have you done work for Mr Cafferty before?’

The man shook his head again.

‘But you know who he is? So it’s not beyond the realms of fantasy that there was a gunshot of some kind?’

‘Tells me he tripped and fell against the pane. I’ve seen it happen plenty times.’

‘I’m guessing,’ Fox interrupted, ‘he made it worth your while to come out straight away.’

‘It says “Emergency” on my van because that’s what I do — emergency repairs. Immediate response whenever possible.’ The man hammered the final nail into place and checked his handiwork. There was a toolbox on the ground next to him, along with a portable workbench where he had sawn the plywood to size. The shards of glass had been swept up into a dustpan, larger pieces placed one on top of the other. Fox had crouched down to examine them, but when he stood up, the look he gave Clarke told her he hadn’t gleaned anything. She turned towards the solid-looking door, pressing the bell half a dozen times. When there was no response, she bent down and pushed open the letter box.

‘It’s DI Clarke,’ she called out. ‘Siobhan Clarke. Any chance of a word, Mr Cafferty?’

‘Come back with a warrant!’ a voice from within yelled. She put her eyes to the letter box and could see his shadowy bulk in the darkened hall.

‘It’s good you’ve turned the lights off,’ she said. ‘Makes you less of a target. Do you reckon they’ll come back?’

‘What are you on about? You been on the sauce again? I hear you’re getting too fond of it.’

Clarke could feel the blood rising to her cheeks. She managed to stop herself checking Fox’s reaction. ‘You could be endangering your neighbours’ lives as well as your own — please think about that.’

‘You’re dreaming, woman. I knocked against the glass and it broke. End of story.’

‘If it’s a warrant you want, I can fetch one.’

‘Bugger off and do that then, and leave me in peace!’

She let the flap of the letter box clack shut and straightened up, fixing her eyes on Fox.

‘You reckon you’ve got something better than a warrant, don’t you?’ he said. ‘Go on then.’ He motioned towards the phone she was clutching in her right hand. ‘Give him a bell…’

The Oxford Bar was almost empty, and John Rebus had the back room to himself. He sat in the corner with a view of the doorway. It was something you learned to do as a cop — anyone coming in who might mean trouble, you wanted as much warning as you could get. Not that Rebus was expecting trouble, not here.

And besides, he was no longer a cop.

A month since his retirement. He had gone quietly in the end, demanding no fanfare, and turning down the offer of a drink with Clarke and Fox. Siobhan had phoned him a few times since, on various pretexts. He’d always managed to find some excuse not to meet up. Even Fox had got in touch — Fox! Ex-Professional Standards, a man who had tried snaring Rebus many a time — calling in an awkward attempt to share gossip before getting to the point.